


Wash Me Away

by mrecookies



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Community: writerverse, Coping, Gen, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-04 09:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrecookies/pseuds/mrecookies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting out of the Corps doesn't mean getting out of war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wash Me Away

**Author's Note:**

> For Challenge #24 at writerverse. Prompts used were 'Horror' and 'Cold Comfort'.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** Based on the fictionalized character as played by PJ Ransone in the HBO miniseries, not the real person (lol cwidt).

The taste of Iraq is there in his mind every single day, even though he's out of the Corps. It's bitter and dusty, smelling of sweat and tears and guns and fire and MREs and Kevlar. He dreams of it all, the bumpy ride along the berms, the acrid burn of dip in between his teeth and tongue and lips, the kiss of his rifle against his cheek, and the recoil that punches his shoulder like a best friend after a fistfight. Sometimes, he wakes up thinking that he's still dreaming.

It's there when he's at the gym, keying in customer information into a crappy desktop, smiling at regulars and shooting the breeze with those he likes. His words are a variant of those that he yelled out in Iraq. The same moto bullshit, just twisted to fit civilian ears. It's the same, but it's different, and that's basically it.

Missouri is hot and humid in the summer. He likes the heat as much as he hates it. It's familiar. He wears tank tops and jeans and khakis, his dog tags glinting in the sun; no more MOPP suits that suffocate his skin, thank fuck. Showers are always his favourite time of day. You can't go through three weeks in Iraq without coming home to realize that showers are a godsend, even though he lost faith in any higher power since forever ago.

It's only there, in that small space of time, that Ray can ignore the rough caress of memories of the lurching feeling of coming down after a Ripped Fuel high and seeing dead bodies and blood all around, of the sinking _what have I done_ that he tried to silence with rants that never seemed to end. When he gets the courage to turn the water off, the dust comes back and clings to the top of his mouth, quick as a shamal on the horizon, but he moves on with his day-to-day life, because he has to, because Marines make do.


End file.
